GOING POTTY
When the stars wink and hours whirl past My mind is trussed to art’s toil fast To ignite the spark my pen I prime And set my words to meter and rhyme But my lines fade; my thoughts lack gloss My verse is arid and crumbles to dross I poke the embers; my wits turn raw The muse is mute; I see no thaw. Sign in to see full entry.